


Faceless

by DarthFucamus



Category: Hush (2016 Flanagan)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Cum feeding, Deaf Character, Deaf Reader, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Home Invasion, Knifeplay, Masks, Non-Consensual Bondage, Object Penetration, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spit As Lube, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 01:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14153883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus
Summary: You are a deaf woman that has become the target of a ruthless masked serial killer. He's worn you down until you gave up the fight. But he has something else in mind for you...





	Faceless

**Author's Note:**

> This is not about Maddie. The context, if needed, is that I imagine he survived the events of the movie and has developed a fixation on women with hearing impairments after being nearly defeated by one.
> 
> This is one of my going-to-hell-if-there-is-one fics. Please note the tags, and be warned.

You tried to survive, you really did. You did everything you could to defeat him and save yourself, but he was always one step ahead of you.

He cut off your escape routes, but you were just as responsible when you barricaded the exits to keep him out. He cut the electricity and the cable line, isolating you far worse than you’d been before.

He trapped you. You wondered why he chose to torment you at first, but now you just wish it would stop.

He made it impossible for you to escape him.

Now, you are exactly where he wants you, and there is nothing you can do.

There is only you, and him. The two of you, separated by the thick glass of your door.

His eyes stare at you dolefully through the holes in the almost-smiling mask between the frosty blooms of spider-web fractures. The bullet-proof glass was a safety precaution in an area where hunting was common, but it had also stopped the brick he wielded in his hand.

All it had really done in the end was slow the inevitable.

It’s so cold, you can feel your nose and toes going numb. Or maybe it’s the blood loss.

You can see his eyes moving over you. Maybe looking for where to plant that blade he’s carrying. It’s already covered in blood, not yours.

You’re so tired. Everything hurts. He was right all along, hours ago, when he said he’d wear you down until you gave in. He could have come in anytime he wanted. But he told you that he would make you want to die, and that's when he would come in.

The gloved hand holding the knife touches his side of the glass and the fingers draw smears of blood behind.

It’s his blood. He’d already made you pay for that, the throbbing puncture wound in the back of your thigh will not let you forget, but it’s not over.

You rest your forehead against the glass and close your eyes. You can still see the white face of his mask burned into your retinas.

Your hand moves to the door handle and tears that you thought were dry begin to seep down your face. You think about your sister, and her family, and family Christmases. You think about the things you were going to do, the painting you had nearly finished with earlier in the night, before all of this. Its subject, a man with a blurred face, was unintentionally prescient. It haunts you now.

You open your eyes and see the nightmare version of the faceless figure in front of you, watching you without blinking.

You turn the latch until it clicks, and you meet his eyes as you step back holding your arm. The bleeding has stopped, but you still can’t move it well.

He turns the handle and in one motion, you’ve undone hours of evasion and desperate, defiant survival.

He pushes the door open, flexes his shoulders, and cracks his neck. Then he comes at you.

Your legs aren’t working so well and you stumble back. Your butt hits the hardwood floor and he stands over you and adjusts his grip on the knife.

You can almost smell his anticipation. He lifts up his mask part way, showing an average white male with sunken eye sockets and a neck tattoo. He shows you his face so you can see his smile, and so you can read his lips.

_I’m going to bury my knife in you so deep it will never leave. I’m going to play with your insides._

His mouth forms the last words with extreme clarity.

_I will make. You. Scream._

You cry and shake your head as he slips the mask back into place to hide his face from you and isolate you further. His words, and his smile, are seared into your brain and your internal voice makes them echo repeatedly until it’s the only thing you can think about.

When he puts his hands on you, you instantly regret giving in to your despair and letting him in. He has you, and while you’d hoped for something quick, maybe in a fit of rage after what you’d put him through, you realize that there is nothing to stop him now from taking as long as he wants.

You would not have been strong enough to physically resist him when the horror started, but now your weak flailing is pathetic, laughable. You don’t know if he’s laughing. His eyes look dead serious as he kneels beside you and fights your arms down.

He pushes your wrists together over your head as he cuts through a lamp cord. You try to kick your legs, but you’re too weak to be effective. He uses the cord to bind your forearms, knots it with the plug end, too tight. You can already feel your fingertips growing cold, and try to rotate your wrists to loosen the cord, and it brings some relief. And then he’s pulling off your shoes. He throws them elsewhere in the room.

At first you don’t know why he took your shoes, but then you realize that if you were to manage to escape him somehow and get outside, your bare feet would quickly be frozen, cut on the forest floor, and you’d be easier to catch. It makes a cruel kind of sense.

He uses the hammer, still bloody, to nail the cord around your arms to the floor.

Freezing to death would have been gentler. It looks like he’s going to make you suffer for what you did to him.

Something catches your attention across the room. Your shoes have landed at the base of the easel, loosening the sheet you’d draped over your work. The faceless man in the painting seems to watch the horrors unfold without eyes.

The knife in the intruder’s hand flashes in the indirect light, pulling your attention back to him. The only thing visible on his face are his eyes. They blink slowly, lids fluttering like he’s dazed. Maybe like he doesn’t know what to do now that he has you.

He uses the tip to pull up the bottom of your shirt. He bunches it in one hand and begins to saw through the fabric. No, he knows exactly what he’s going to do. Here it comes.

You wail as he tears the shirt open the rest of the way and rips a strip off. You try to turn your head away from him when he holds it over your eyes, but he still manages to tie it around your head.

You are now blind as well as deaf.

He touches your cheek with the knife, moves the edge down to your throat as if to say, should I cut here? It moves. Or should I sink it under your collarbone, piercing your lungs from above… no… maybe plunge it into your ribs.

He draws the pointed tip down your stomach then up, toying with you. What does he want? Does he just want to torture you, is that it? How much longer can he drag this out? You know he’s tired, too. He has to be, if he’s human.

If.

No, you think, shaking your head both in an attempt to dislodge the blindfold, and in your own denial. He is human. A dreadful thought occurs to you of all the horrors he could commit before actually killing you. Before your brain can concoct anything specific,  he hooks the knife under the front of your bra, scraping the skin of your breastbone in the process. The blade cuts the thick band separating the cups. The tension in the elastic chest band snaps back suddenly and your breasts fall to the sides.

You can’t see him, but you can almost feel his eyes burning into your bare chest, nipples tightening against the cold. He sets to work slipping the blade between your hip and jeans, sawing through the waistband. It’s so sharp, the denim parts like butter.

One by one, he eliminated your defenses and wore you down. Now, one by one he removes every other factor that might have been in your favor; your shoes, your sight, your freedom of movement, and your clothes.

When he tugs on your jeans to pull them off your legs, you kick, try to make it hard for him. He doesn't appreciate your resistance and the hard slap to your breast comes out of nowhere. Startled, you scream.

 _I will make you scream_ , your internal voice echoes, over and over.

His hand leaves a burning print where he touched you, but you stop fighting, humiliated. More than that, you’re afraid he'll do worse if you resist.

The pants come off all the easier without shoes to stop them.

You expect the underwear to follow, but nothing happens. You wonder if he's just sitting there, watching your blindfold dampen with tears. You shiver, and in the absence of his touch, the cold encroaches once more.

You wonder if he's there at all, or if he's left you bound and blindfolded to freeze to death. Alone in the dark, naked and helpless, with no one to help you.

You could have done that without his help, now you’ll just make a more wretched sight whenever your body is discovered.

You almost laugh, but a vibration on the floor stops you and the fear comes back to replace the delirium. He’s been there the whole time, watching you come to pieces.

Hard boots kick your legs apart, and you cry out louder, try to close your thighs to protect yourself, but another hard smack with the flat of his blade on your breast stops you.

It's too much. The fear of the blade is what makes your legs fall open.

Just kill me, you try to say but you can tell by the quivering in your throat muscles that your words are probably less intelligible than usual.

He nudges your thighs open with his boots again. You can feel the cold dampness on his boots and the grit of dirt from the outside against your skin.

Then, for long seconds, nothing.

You want to close your legs and curl into a ball for the cold more than the meager protection, but you don’t want to risk making him angry. Your entire body is shaking now, and your teeth would be chattering if your jaw weren’t clamped shut to the point of aching.

Between your legs, you feel the hard, cold wetness of his boot toe. He nudges against your crotch hard enough that you can feel the rubber tread. It feels like he’s stepping on you, but holding back his full weight.

Your thighs clamp shut around his shoe like a bear trap, an involuntary reaction to protect yourself, but the point of a blade slashes the inside of your left knee shallowly. Blood rolls down, tickles your cold skin.

Your trembling legs fall open again. It stings where he cut you, a lingering warning. He moves his shoe away from your groin.

The cold melted slush from his shoe soaks into your panties. The flesh down there feels cold. Inert, like your body is preparing for impending trauma and has cut off the circulation.

You expect him to kick you. Instead, he touches the toe of his boot to your thinly-covered vulva again, not kicking, but nudging. Prodding. You shake your head, sobbing voicelessly. The motivation is plainly sexual in nature and humiliating.

He’s taunting you. He has effectively reminded you that you have another weakness that he can, and will, exploit.

The pressure of his boot disappears and in its absence, you feel fear. Long, agonizing seconds pass as you try to tell where he is by the vibrations in the floor, but they are dampened by the rug. You feel nothing but the cold. Uncontrollable tremors rack your body.

Something touches the front of your hip. It’s not his boot, though, it’s the knife. It slides under the leg of your panties, tugs, and then cuts fabric. He does the same with the other side.

He peels the front of the underwear down. You picture him doing this with delicate fingers pinching the fabric, because all you know is that the last barrier, damp and thin and dirty from his boot, is gone. It clung briefly, stuck in your delicate folds, but now there’s nothing but the bite of frigid air.

You shiver in the cold. Your fingertips have lost feeling, and it worries you. You have the sense that he’s only getting started.

The knife point touches down between your navel and pubic mound, but it doesn’t stop there, it travels lower. The hyper focus on the sharp point of his knife, which had so easily cut denim, sends you into a state of strange calm. You think of Jack the Ripper, Gacy, Manson. You wonder if this is what their victims felt before they died.

He's not applying pressure to the knife, but it's sharp enough that its own weight leaves a stinging trail. It lifts before it reaches your mons. You expect the next thing you feel will be the dirty, sharp blade plunging into your stomach.

But instead, you feel it again on the middle of your inner left thigh. It travels up the inside, so slowly that you can’t help but surmise its trajectory. All arrows point between your legs.

All you think about are his words.

_I’m going to play with your insides._

You think about the damage a knife could do to you there, and the pain it would cause before it kills you. You don't even know if you're forming words anymore, but he doesn't care about your begging and stammering anyway.

The knife stops short of your groin. It lifts again. You steel yourself for the agony, pray that you will die quickly, know that you will scream louder than you ever have; there’s no point to bravery when your cunt’s being held at knife point.

Contact. You scream reflexively but it’s not a blade that touches you between your legs, it’s fingers.

You struggle against the embarassment of your reaction, but that's when you feel the knife point bite into your belly just deep enough to pierce the outer layer of skin. Warm wet trickles down the slope of your waist.

You stop moving, barely breathe. When his fingers cup against your labia, you have the idea to make yourself pass out. You don't want to feel this, and you hold your breath.

You make it 30 seconds before you feel a finger slip between your labia and nudge your clit. It makes you gasp, and oxygen floods your lungs and brain.

He's not wearing gloves. It's his bare hand touching you. All night he wore gloves, but it seems that he wants to feel your skin against his, now.

You cry until your throat feels raw, even though it makes the knife cut into you. He doesn't seem to mind, just starts nudging your clit through the fleshy hood.

You think of your sister, and her family. You think of the puppy you had as a kid. You think of a daytime world lit by the sun.

A bolt of warmth forces you back into the cold, dark present.

His touch is artless but effective, if he's trying to make your body work against you. The sting of the knife point is starting to spread to a localized ache. It contrasts with the friction he's rubbing into your vulva. It's not pleasurable, but it does create a lurching sort of reaction in your gut.

The blindfold is damp with your tears and chilled against your face. You try to adjust your wrists again, the cord bites into your skin and distracts you.

You think of your friends back in the city, and how a meetup was long overdue. You think of anything, but it’s your painting that comes to mind, it’s faceless male subject, and just then a finger slides toward your vagina, sharp edge of a short nail snagging your skin.

He penetrates you with it, pushes inside of your clenched orifice and pulls out. He spreads your fluids around, though there isn't much. You are dry as a bone.

He resumes his ministrations on your clitoris, rhythmic and relentless. And though you're struggling to take your mind elsewhere, your focus begins to narrow to what he's doing to you, and why. Why you? He seemed to know, somehow, that you couldn’t hear him from the start. How long had he watched you without you knowing?

Please stop, you try to beg, but your voice has rarely been an ally. You long to sign but your hands are ineffective when bound. Next, you silently beg the same of yourself. Don't respond to him, you plead.

But despite your pain and exhaustion, the next time he slips a finger inside of you, it's easier. When he removes it, you feel the cold air hitting moisture. Not much, but more than before.

The hand pulls away, and the knife point disappears from your awareness. He touches the shallow cut on the inside of your knee, your belly.

His fingers are wet when he touches you between your legs again. Your blood, or his saliva, there’s no way to know. There is enough of it to moisten your flesh, and you don’t think you bled enough for that, but you don’t know.

He rubs his warm, wet fingers over your labia and dips them in between. He slips another finger into you, then two. He nudges your clitoris with his thumb while he does this, and the warmth grows. The lurching, involuntary prodding toward physical reaction is so much worse for how you aren't even fighting it anymore. It doesn't hurt, not physically. It is preferable to the pain you knows he’s capable of giving you.

He pulls his fingers out of you, but doesn’t stop churning against your sensitive nub with a calloused thumb. Something cold and hard replaces his fingers at the entrance to your vagina.

You think it’s the knife, and you clench. You begin you scream again, thrash against it. No no no no no no… no no please no. Not that. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t, no.

He slaps your breasts hard, and then pushes whatever it is inside of you. Cold metal sinks deep but… not as much pain as you were steeled for. You realize, when he pulls it out part way, that it’s the handle of his knife. Rough ridges on the handle’s grip scrape against the ring of muscle at the opening, but it is not the blade.

You start to cry, from relief and from humiliation. He resumes manipulating your clitoris, slowly pushing the knife handle into you and drawing it out again.

He is patient, and he is persistent. If nothing else, he’s shown this to be true. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t want this, because you can feel your nerve endings down there start to wake up.

Something wet, and lukewarm, drops onto your mound, and he rubs it in, spreads it around. His saliva. Internally, your body fights the only way it can, by clenching against the violation. All it does is get the circulation flowing faster between your legs. Against everything, you feel your pulse pound in your labia, and the tight circles his thumb is pushing against your clitoris begin to settle a little deeper.

He inserts the knife handle as deep as it will go, to the hilt, before pulling it out. He shoves it in harder, pulls it out. The smoothly-ridged texture of the metal produces friction heat against your flesh. It starts to compound.

Though your covered eyes are still streaming, you feel your thighs spread open. Not because he forced them, this time. They strain wide, and relentlessly, he massages the knot of nerve endings, showing no outward sign of being pleased by this response, or angered. You have no way of knowing, but he hasn’t slapped you, so you think you must be doing exactly what he wanted. You hate it as much as you accept you can’t stop it.

You start to mentally withdraw. You are tired. One by one, he has worn down your resistances. You were ready to die, you surrendered yourself to him. You relent to the building tightness, the heat generated by what he’s doing to you. You aren’t cold anymore, even your fingertips feel flooded.

He has isolated you to what you feel. And you feel _everything_ . Your pelvic floor muscles twitch, and suddenly sweet jolts strike you in your lower spine. You chase that, let your muscles squeeze in a rhythm. You think of nothing but the fact that you don’t feel pain anymore, just _that._

You keep your breaths short and shallow, you're not crying anymore. Your face feels hot.

He jams the knife to the hilt inside of you and holds it there, stops touching your clit. Your hips actually jerk when deprived of the sensation.

Seconds later, the hot puff of air between your labia prepares you for what is more shocking than a blade to your sensitive flesh… a tongue. And lips, thirsty and cruel. With scrapes of teeth and abrasive stubble, he puts his mouth on you. He has touched you with his bare hands, and now is licking you, sucking.

You clench around the knife grip, squirm to get away from his mouth, but as he tongues you, his hand creeps up to grab a breast, tight, and twists the nipple. The spike of pain hits the wet sucking warmth of his mouth.

You start to orgasm, too surprised to stop it. You make a sound, and it feels loud, as the flash of bliss flares bright and brief.

The mouth disappears, and the knife handle is removed, as hot as your internal body temperature.  Small echoes of uncomfortable pleasure follow the emptiness his penetrative implement left behind.

Just like that, you aren’t being touched anymore. He disappears from your awareness. You feel subtle vibrations through the rug, but you have no idea where he is or what he is doing. You are left alone in the soundless darkness with the realization of what you did, what happened, what he made you feel. Shameful, angry tears soak the cloth over your eyes. It’s sodden by now.

An eternity of seconds passes before you feel fingers brushing your cheek, and your entire body jerks with the sudden sensation of being touched again. The cloth is pushed up from your eyes.

He is the first thing you see. Him, not the mask, which sits on top of his head.

His eyes glint in the darkness, his mouth is open, and he's breathing hard. In his hand is the knife, handle damp with fluids, blade crusted with old blood. The other hand seizes your jaw, jams thumb and fingertips on either side, forcing your mouth open.

You fight him, but he's strong and you're tired. With your breath coming in fast puffs of vapor, he leans down. The malicious uptick to one corner of his mouth tells you what he’s going to do before he does it. He gathers spit, you see it pooling inside his bottom lip, and then he lets it drop into your open mouth.

You swallow before you can stop yourself. His expression is unreadable.

His hands are busy at his fly. Now it comes, you think. It feels like a dream when he reaches in and pulls himself out. He is half hard. You would have assumed more.

He leaves his face uncovered when starts to touch himself. It doesn’t matter, his real face reveals nothing. You don’t want to look, and you try not to, but he only needs one hand to do this. The other is light on your thigh, pinching and squeezing, calling your attention back to him.

He sweeps his fingertips up and to the center where your fluids from the forced orgasm are thickening, and you jerk your body at the sudden contact. He brushes his thumb over your clit, uncharacteristically gentle.

Then he slaps your vulva. You cry out and flinch, and the tears come faster. You’re more startled than hurt, but your nerves are still jangling from the orgasm. You look him in the eyes, the only thing showing through his disturbing expression of placidity.

He makes a gesture with two fingers, from your eyes to his.

Keep watching, he says, licking his glistening bottom lip.

You do as he says, knowing well that you are still at his mercy. He begins to stroke himself, and your eyes dart down to look. It was involuntary, but when you look away from the pale pink organ fisted in his hand, he slaps you again between your legs a second time with the warm flat of his palm.

The stinging recedes and leaves warmth there, and throbbing. You don’t want to watch him masturbate, so you watch his eyes.

They are clear and dark and hollow, and completely calm. He blinks slowly, and never once looks away from your face. If it weren’t for the small tremors going through him with the movement of his hand, his stillness would seem zen-like.

He inches forward on his knees.

You try to think of anything else but what he’s doing as you lie on the carpet in the cold, dark room, but it’s impossible.

He doesn’t position himself between your legs. He’s not going to fuck you. On his knees to the side of you, he maneuvers over your chest. He pauses in his masturbation and a hand that smells like cock swipes the damp sides of your face. He rubs the moisture of your tears onto his cockhead. His head lolls back on his neck, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. It's like your tears heighten his pleasure.

All of it is a show of his power over you, and you are powerless. His strokes have quickened, and his chest rises and falls with each breath.

Your traitorous cunt throbs with increased blood flow at the sight of his stiff, red-flushed cock. You’ve already come, but your exhausted body expects more. It’s not what he intends, though.

His eyes pinch, his mouth opens, and his pupils roll back. His entire body jerks and hot spatters of thick liquid spurt over your breasts. He ejaculates mostly on your chest but an errant squirt hits your chin. He squeezes and strokes, looking down at you as he smears the last dregs against your upper chest from the head of his cock.

The fluid goes cold so quickly. He’s still watching you as he tucks himself back into his jeans.

He grabs your chin with damp fingers and prys your jaw open like he did before. You don’t fight him as much this time, expecting more spit. But, to your horror, he starts to scrape the cooling, viscous globs of sperm off your skin with his fingers. You know his intentions now, and you try to turn your head away, but his strong fingers dig into your skin. You’re not ready for the chilly gobs that hit your recoiling tongue.

Bitter, vaguely chemical smelling cum drips from his fingertips into your open mouth.

You groan and pinch your eyes, breathing so hard your chest heaves, but he doesn’t let his hold on your face slip. You know you’ll have bruises in the shape of fingertips from this. He scrapes every bit of cum he can salvage into your mouth. The moment you think to spit it out, eyes watering, he holds your nose closed, cutting off your only other means of air. Your throat convulses, his cool ejaculate pools in your mouth.

It’s plain very quickly that you won’t win this.

You will have to swallow his salty cum so you can breathe. The thought makes you gag. It is slimy and tepid and thick as it slides down the back of your tongue. You cough and nearly choke on it, but in the end you gulp it down and then you suck in a desperate breath.

He pats your cheek. Good girl.

He stands. He pulls out his knife, and you don’t even flinch anymore, just watch it with weary dread.

He cuts through the cord tying your hands together.

You are dazed and slow on the uptake. The bitter taste of him has sunk into every crack and crevice of your mouth. Beaten, you don’t even consider what it means that he cut you free, you only care that blood rushes back into your hands, which are all pins and needles.

You rub your sore wrists and curl into a ball on your side. Footsteps approach, and you tense, expecting the knife or a boot, the killing blow. Nothing comes.

You imagine him standing there, looking down at you.

The vibrations recede.

You lie there for some time before you realize that you’re alone. Truly alone, for sure this time.

He left you. He ground you down until you were raw, he tied you up, he humiliated you, and he left you alive so that you had to think about it.

You don’t waste time, you find the strength to pull yourself to your knees. Gripping a side table, you climb to your feet. Your legs are jelly.

You stagger and limp drunkenly into the kitchen, holding the back of your thigh where his crossbow bolt got you, and find the electric tape and a pair of scissors. Your eyes constantly dart around the periphery, wary of movement or sign of his return, but it doesn’t come.

You cling unsteadily to walls as you make your way back into the living room. The old landline phone is toppled on its side on the coffee table. He’d cut the cord earlier in the evening, proof that he’d been inside your house before you’d even known he was there, and now you use your scissors to strip the insulation, expose the wires, and reconnect them, bound by electrical tape.

The old phones don’t need electricity to function, so you pray you did it right.

When you see the buttons light up, you sob with relief. You dial 911, and you say over and over, as clearly as you can manage, your address and the plea _help me._ You hope they understand you.

You have no way of knowing if they heard, or responded. Your speech-to-text adaptor relied on electricity and you’ve been deprived. You don’t even know if the call connected, but you think it did.

You still feel the soreness between your legs from the knife handle. The sensations will fade with time, but you’ll never be able to forget this.

_I’m going to bury my knife in you so deep it will never leave._

Your internal voice taunts you over and over.

It seems the call did connect, as you see blue and red lights flash in the dark drive. It didn't take long.

You are wrapped in a blanket when the cops find you inside your front door, half frozen and beyond tears.

Yes, you’re alive. But it’s a small comfort when you know he’s still out there somewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to FancyLadySnackCakes for giving me the courage to post this. That being said, I hope it wasn't too rough for anyone. If you are also going to hell, let me know in the comments!


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